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On this particular morning, I walked into the cafe and found Alissa sitting in the back.  She’d already gotten herself a coffee.  She was holding the cup with both hands, still feeling the chill from outside.  She was wearing jeans and a fabulous off white sequined top under the perfect navy blazer (not a spot of spit-up to be found), a pair of slouchy knee high boots – low heel – in mahogany with side buckles and they DID fit her calves.    She had a manicure.  French, pppfff of course.  Her wedding and engagement rings fit her ring finger perfectly.  Her hair looked lovely tucked behind one ear with ease, curls flowing and not frizzing.  As I approached the table, I noticed her looking down and smiling.  Of course.  She’d brought the baby.  He was in his carseat. I stopped and watched for a moment.  As I stepped closer to the table his face became visible and I could see why she didn’t want to take her eyes off of him.  He was THE CUTEST BABY IN THE WORLD.

Me: Hi, Alissa.

Alissa: Hi!  So good to see you.

Me: Thank you so much for agreeing to this interview.  It’s been awhile.

Alissa: Yes, it has.  But the time off has been worth it. She looks down at her son…nope…sorry her manicure.

Me: He’s beautiful.  How old is he now?

Alissa: Thank you.  Ten weeks, eleven on Saturday. 

Me: He’s so calm, such a good baby.  He seems very advanced.  He was holding a menu running his finger down the list of iced drinks.

Alissa:  How nice of you to say that.  Yes, I don’t mean to brag, but he is quite extraordinary.  I don’t want to compare my baby to others.  Although, he does seem to be gifted.  And perfect.  And gorgeous. In fact, he may start talking next week – you never know! She laughs.

Me: And how are you doing as a new mom?

Alissa: Wonderfully, I think.  I’ve managed to look stunning, didn’t you notice?  And, my child is clean, in a fresh diaper, keeping to himself and occasionally smiling at me to let me know that he needs me but is not overly needy.  My husband is completely content with our new family life and is sure we’ll be able to afford everything a child needs.  If you were to go to my house right now, my floors would be vacuumed, laundry done and put away, dishes loaded in the dishwasher and everything in its place.

Me:  That sounds…almost impossible, but okay.  So, you’re getting back to work then?  We would love to know what’s next for you.

Alissa: Work?  Who’s working? I had a kid so I could stay home and watch Oprah.

Me: Ha.  That’s a joke…right? Anyway, you’ll be churning out something stellar soon? 

Alissa: Totally.  Yes.

Isn’t my child pretty?  His poop smells like the rainforest.

We sat and talked for another hour while her son filled out an application for Mensa or plotted the takedown of all wireless communications – I’m not sure.  I swear he winked at me once.  Look for a continuation of this interview in next month’s issue.  Find out Alissa’s other uses for a breast pump and why you shouldn’t panic when the doctor delivering your baby says, “What is that?”

 

 

Over the past few months, my husband and I have come to the realization that no, we’re not going on that over-seas trip because we’re having a baby!  We’re not installing new kitchen cabinetry because we’re having a baby!  We’re not fencing in our backyard because we’re having a baby!  You’re not going on that sky-diving trip because we’re having a baby and you can’t die and leave me here alone.  What?

The money we would be spending is now going to nipple cream, butt cream, blankets that you receive things in, blankets that you wrap things up in, blankets that are annoyingly called “lovies”.  Swings, play-pens or yards or packs or boxes, onesies – twosies – threesies.  If you’re a new parent, the list is overwhelming.  Will my child die if I don’t buy this brand of wipe?  Should I be concerned about this pacifier and the manufacturer’s evil plan to confuse my baby?  Is this my mother’s nipple?  IS IT? I’m so confused!  Maybe my baby should have this type of toy so that he is intellectually stimulated at a very young age, which will prove to be beneficial when he is sitting for the MCAT in 20 plus years. 

Check these out:

Staring rabbits.  Any way you turn this puzzle, the rabbits just keep staring.  Is this really interesting to a toddler?  Where are the fun colors and the cute bunny faces?  I get it.  There are several different ways to solve this puzzle.  Thank God.  I wouldn’t want my child to get his feelings hurt when it didn’t work on his first try.  Now, to go and find a little league soccer team where the coach cheers when a player runs away from the ball and tells him, “Hey, great job recognizing your feelings about that ball.  Who needs to score? Or play the game, right?  High-five.”

Look are that pretty green paint.  So soothing.   Cute bassinet, right?  Hmm…wheels may not be a great idea.

OH MY GOD.  WHAT’S WRONG WITH THAT DUCK?!

I phone, you phone, we all phone for ridiculous apps.  Hey, hun, we should totally buy that app that analyzes our baby’s cry.  I mean, I definitely want to put my overly expensive phone in the crib where our child can have explosive diarrhea all over it and then I’ll be like, Oh, no.  Baby is crying.  Let me go check my phone and see why.  Wait.  I can’t because it’s covered in poop.  What do I do now?!!  I just want to know if the app recognizes the cry of a baby who is sad she was born to such f-ing idiots.

Oh, Glory Be!  Do you think she knows there’s a baby coming out of that hole in her vest?  Maybe you’ve seen this picture before.  I searched for its origin and could not for sure connect it to www.togetherbe.com, but it seems likely they are the ones to blame.  And, they’ve taken this particular product off the website.  Wonder why?  I love alien baby heads.  This particular baby head is consuming this woman from the inside out.  But at least they are both warm.

It’s so hot.  Sooooo hot. It’s the kind of hot where you sweat when you step out of the shower, which makes me believe that showering may be a waste of time.  And, it’s only June.  It’ so hot that I considered joining a pool, something I didn’t think I would need to do until our kids become walking age.  But it’s so damn hot.  So, I searched online. 

I’m not a water person.  I’m not an outdoor person.  Have you seen my picture?  This ginger isn’t so attractive after a day at the pool or at the beach or a few minutes in a Walmart parking lot.  I’m convinced that every Walmart is a gateway to Hell.  I burn faster within a five-mile radius.  Give me ten minutes outside with out sunscreen and prepare to nurse my blisters the rest of the day.  Of course, if I’m going to be out – let’s say at the Farmer’s Market (because that makes me sound trendy when I really should be saying “the line for giant corn dogs at the state fair”) – I will slather on sunscreen.  And I don’t care what people say about the number on the bottle.  If one reads “80” and the other “25”, I’m buying the “80”.  I’ll give it a chance.  I wear hats, sunglasses and make sure to reapply sunscreen if I’m out for the long-haul.  I do this so that I don’t end up in an oatmeal bath or need to wear The Hubbs’ baggy clothes for a week or need to change my personal theme song to “Rock Lobster.” Imagine my glee when I found an indoor public pool. The heavens are listening! I’ll admit that “public” can sometimes mean “Hey, come swim with that homeless guy who hangs out under the 540 bridge while he takes his monthly bath.”  But this place is pretty swanky.  Well, it looks swanky from the pictures online.  I haven’t actually been to the facilities to check them out.  However, from the online info, it seems that I can take water aerobics in the mornings.  Hello!  I can swim with a bunch of grandmas and be the best looking one there.  Take that, golden girls.

Finding a pool meant I had to find a bathing suit.  Can I point out that just because I would rather have a suit with a skirt because of some “issue areas” doesn’t mean that I want to look like a two-year old with a frilly bottom.  And nevermind trying to find a maternity suit (yes, maternity – there’s a baby in there, so they tell me) that provides my lower half with some decent coverage.  Oh, and one that provides ample support up top?  I don’t want to accidentally practice nursing on the guy that isn’t looking where he’s swimming.

I just want to get some exercise.  And get out of this heat.  And do it some what fashionably.  And beat those grandmas at their own game.

How long until fall?

Eye of the tiger.

Eye of the tiger.

I don’t like salt on my margaritas.  There.  I said it.  Hate me if you like.  Do you recognize the Spanish villa tile?  That’s right.  We had a drink and dinner at Chili’s prior to seeing Where The Wild Things Are on Friday.  Right away I will tell you not to take small children, elderly neighbors or scaredy-cat friends to this movie.  It’s not really scary.  It’s just dark.  The not-so-kid-friendly kind of dark.  You may ask yourself, “But I thought this book was a kid’s book?”  My mother reminded me this morning that Maurice Sendak (the author) was criticized back in the 70s for writing a dark children’s book.  His reply: I don’t write books for children. 

And here’s why that makes sense to me: Not until I was an adult and buying “children’s books” for my niece did I pick up WTWTA and reread it.  I GET it now.  When I was a kid the book wasn’t pink or have puppies bounding across a field on the cover, so it wasn’t my fave.  Now that I’m an adult and have moved (slowly) away from things pink and Lord knows I love puppies, but they don’t monopolize my attention (as much), my appreciation for all things artistic has broadened.  I appreciate the drawings in the book so much more now, not to mention the story.  THE STORY.  So, it also dawned on me as an adult how my imagination has developed borders, lines not to be crossed.  My logical brain stymies my imaginative flow when it says, “No. Stop.  Roosters don’t tap dance on demand.  That’s idiotic.”  As a kid, that rooster would have been tap dancing and singing “Hello, my baby. Hello, my honey. Hello, my ragtime gal” with three eggs with no eyes or hands just feet doing back up dancing with no objections from my brain.  Doesn’t that sound fun?  Maybe a little creepy because the eggs don’t have eyes or hands, but you get my point.  As we grow up, we lose a little bit of our creative license.  Most of us do anyway.  Kudos to those adults that don’t.  I think they all work at Pixar.  Thanks, Mr. Sendak, for reminding me what the world looks like from an uninhibited point of view – or maybe it was just the El Presidente margarita.

The movie was great.  I have a feeling that not everyone will like it and to that I say, “Nanny-nanny-boo-boo.  I don’t care.”

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© Alissa C. Miles and "And So They Did...", 2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material including pictures from posts and/or other pages without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alissa C. Miles and "And So They Did..." with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. Basically, don't steal my stuff. Thanks. -A.

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